Gertrude Stein lived in Oakland, CA until her father's death in 1891. She then moved to Baltimore, where she met Claribel and Etta Cone, whose Saturday evening gatherings became the prototype for the salons held at 27 Rue de Fleurus in Paris. That was the home of Gertrude and her lifetime lover, Alice B. Toklas.

The furniture now beings to trickle out.

Photos from the Fall 2007 "Family" gallery of Cornelia Peiper.

The Newsboy, George Wesley Bellows. 1908. Oil painting.

The usual dirt and grime of winter caked with horizontal streaks of mildew on every house along Harrison Street. Come springtime the neighborhood handyman, the dentist's boy, would borrow his father's pressure-washer and restore the vinyl siding to its original state. It used to be a cheap fix anticipated by all the owners who would hire the boy, back when his rate befit a lemonade stand; but now that the boy had a car and, it was speculated, a girlfriend, the service came at a premium.

This Asher learned from his chatty landlord who volunteered him to shovel as he returned from the park.

He began to clear the walkway from the roadside and move inward, starting with the heap from the plow. Once that was removed and only the light powder was left to shovel, he returned to the house and switched directions. His stronger arm preferred to throw left, and after two months without any thaw and snow piles accumulating as high as his brow, he knew to toss over the shallow side if he wanted to save any energy.

Across the street a man lurked in the window. He was watching Asher in a pensive slouch and wearing glasses, seemingly very interested in the chore. The grand windows of the red cedar house spanned two floors, from the living room and kitchen of the second floor to the master bedroom at the top, lit with track lighting to a constant glow, and on the floors, in modern straight lines, were lamps and shades to illuminate the areas where they read, dined and slept. In the darker hours the house seemed to be a spotlight turned inward. Even in the bright morning, such as now, when the windows were more like diaphanous mirrors, the presence of the owners seemed to invite or demand spectators. Asher wondered why any man would gaze downward at a stranger while wearing slippers and a heavy quilt half wrapped over his head, who must be busy in regret, Asher hoped, over a lakeshore design that couldn't possibly insulate well enough for a Vermont winter.

The man rescinded into the interior where the reflection took prominence and little could be seen. Asher rushed his progress so he could warm himself against the wood stove.

A parked car stopped at the sidewalk across the street with the engine still running. A woman in a puffy purple coat, perhaps in her late 30's, was collecting bottles and throwing them four at a time into her unlined trunk for redemption. In the backseat was a child. She knocked on the window at Asher and pressed her face against the window. Moisture accumulated around her nose and stuck-out tongue, and before he turned away, now finished with his chore, Asher glimpsed her writing something with a small pointer finger.

The landlady had apparently been watching Asher as well and was ready at the door with a box of separated material: glass, paper, plastic. Asher spotted the two or three beer bottles he had left in his bedroom the night before. He carried the collection to the street. He noticed now that blue recycling boxes marked every driveway and were mostly filled to the brim. Only five cents per bottle, he thought, but with a stash like that, it might be the same as minimum wage. No boss, no taxes. Oh, but the gas.

The kid passed by Asher and knocked again. The window, in reverse, read "BETCH."

Inside Ms. Renoir was ready with a warm pot of coffee for Asher. The loaf of bread she made earlier that morning was heating in the stove and infused the kitchen with a sweet baker's smell.

"You were up awfully early this morning." The two sat down at the kitchen table, which was lined with a thin floral cloth. Asher was warming his cold toes with cold hands. "Thanks for taking care of the walkway. I see that hideous woman is picking through the trash again. I know she goes through my papers. I've just had it. Before you came inside I placed an order for a paper shredder. It arrives in two days. You'd do best to run any personal information through the machine before that woman steals your credit card information."

"You know her?" Moments earlier it seemed like a good way to bring in extra money, Asher thought. Now it bordered on identity theft.

"Michelle. She's been doing this for months now. Cheated on her husband, who left her for another woman, serves her right. I'm surprised you haven't heard of any of this. Oh but you're just getting back into town, aren't you. Yup. She's a character. I know her aunt from the choir. And that poor little girl, having to survive with her mother's welfare check, it just breaks my heart." Ms. Renoir slipped pale pink mitts over her hands and took the bread out of the oven.

"Have some banana bread sweety, it'll warm you up."